The Masked One
by Theodoras-Faith
Summary: Rated PG13 for safety. Recent raids on Bazhir tribes send the King's Own and Knights to the Desert. But will they find what haunts this lonely place? Or will it find them?
1. Meeting

**Chapter One:**

**The Masked One**

(Author's Note: In this story, Joren is alive, yes, but there will be no romance between him and another charrie… At least, I don't think so. This was written on an imaginative whim of mine, so bear with me. Now, on with the story!)

The King's Own had been sent, once again, to the Desert. But this was not a pleasure trip. Along with the Own were a small band of knights, including Joren of Stone Mountain, Zahir ibn Alhaz, Keladry of Mindelan, and Duke Baird. The urgency of the situation showed in the way the former enemies worked together on many of the jobs. But no one in the band said a word of their mission, at least, not in public. But in private, the matter was discussed over and over again.

"He must be Bazhir," argued Zahir one night. "No other person knows our ways well enough to stage attacks such as these."

"Why not say it? The person goes masked; it could very well be a girl. I am proof of that," Keladry reminded them.

For once, Joren said nothing. He merely looked out of their tent at the Royal Forest, seeming to wait for something. Then, "How do we know where this person is?"

Keladry looked grim. "We don't. For all we know, he –or she- could be following us at this very moment."

Zahir nodded grimly. "And I have a feeling they are. I sense danger; the forest is quiet. I don't even see immortals about. Something is up."

The other two nodded agreement. Keladry stood and went to the tent flap to stand beside Joren. "I just wish they'd show themselves."

_Then perhaps… I will._

"What was that?" asked Kel, startled.

The other two shrugged, worry hidden in their eyes. Together, they stepped out to join the others.

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Only a few yards from the camp, hidden deep in the shadows, stood a figure clothed in dark cloth. It wore a demi-mask (AN: Hides the top part of your face) and wore a cloak hood to hide it's other features.

Unknown to it, Duke Baird, the healer assigned to this trip, was watching. He knew the figure was near. He also sensed pain. Physical pain. He remained still, however, choosing to pretend to sleep as the figure crept closer.

It was joined by another. To his astonishment, Duke Baird noticed that they were speaking, not aloud, but in their minds, and thus in his, as he was the only one close.

_They are not fools, Masked One. They have sent the finest warriors, along with the finest healer._

_Think you I thought them fools? I planned for this, remember? Go back to the camp, and hide your trail. I will join you in a moment's time._

The voice, the second voice, was that of a woman! **The Masked One a woman? That is a view not shared…** thought the Duke as the woman came closer. The man, the second figure, had disappeared.

The Masked One stood over the Duke. _Fools they are, to think I will be beat so easily. I must teach them otherwise… In time. All things come in time…_

She backed away and disappeared in to the shadows. Duke Baird sat up, shaking. There had been a sense of power about the Masked One, a sense of control. Not just physical, such as the control she had shown over her follower, but magical control. He stood and went to Raoul's tent to join the latest meeting, hoping against hope that it had been the last encounter he'd have with their newest enemy. Even though he knew it would not be the last.

Back in her own camp, the Masked One took off her cloak and demi-mask, waving a hand above her head in the air. A wave of blue-grey Gift swept over her. In moments the cloak was gone and she had changed into a dark green dress and lighter shift under it. She hung her cloak up on a tree before entering the make-shift camp.

"Taren! Did you tear them up?" questioned one of her followers.

Taren laughed. "Nay, not yet. It'd take the fun out of all the raids, don't you think?"

The others laughed with her as they made a place open for her beside their small fire. At once each spoke up to give their piece of news. She laughed again and held up a hand. "Quiet! Now, one at a time, each of you tell me your news."

One by one they gave their news, bits of information concerning the knights and fighters, rituals to be performed in the nearest Bazhir tribes, and other news considering their followers who had stayed behind.

She nodded now and then, eating her own food and listening intently. When they finished, she gave what she knew.

"We will have to be careful. We are not a large camp, not in the least. We have only enough to stage raids on those nearest to us, and those that have been hit by raiders this past summer end. The group of fighters that follows us includes the King's Own Third Company, the strongest healer, and no less than three knights. If there are more, I did not see nor hear them. They have mages; so have we. We are evenly matched, in our own ways. But, we have what they don't."

A girl around Taren's age spoke up. "Knowledge of the lands."

A man said "Knowledge of the raiders!"

More called out things they had that they figured the King's Own wouldn't. Taren nodded, smiling slightly.

"If it comes to a fight, we must use this knowledge to win. Once we join with the rest of our group, we will be more than them, but we must still be careful. Now, three days hence we will be meeting our raiding brother tribe, the Chanruns ((pronunciation: Shanruns)). I expect you treat them cordially, even in my slight absence as I show their leader our followers. Mayhaps they will pay us for this knowledge."

The others smiled. Everyone nodded slightly, knowing that, though the Chanruns were their opponents in trade, this was for the best.

Taren stood, having finished her meal. "Come, let's get our rest now, while we still have a chance."

Following her example, they walked away and went to bed silently, hiding in the shadows. Taren sat at the edge, smiled, and slept.

Duke Baird told the others what he had seen and heard. Every one listened intently. When Duke Baird related the nature of their speaking, and repeated what had been said, it was Raoul who spoke.

"She spoke like a noble," he said softly. "But not Tortallan…" He shook his hand. "This used to be simple," he complained.

"Probably a lot more boring, too," said Kel, grinning at her former Knight master.

Joren sat back. "Do we know her plans?" he asked. "Do we have any knowledge of whatever group she's traveling with?"

Raoul shook his head. "No. No knowledge at all. This forest has been combed through and through more than fifteen times, and no one has been found."

Zahir thought back to the letter he had received. "She's been attacking Bazhir tribes just before, after, or during rituals, right?"

The other nodded, their attention completely on him.

"Then I have a guess to where she might be next. It might be wrong the first few times, but perhaps she'll get there." He showed them the letter, describing the ceremony of the shaman's child's birth to come up. "For some reason, she attacks more when it's against Shamans. Perhaps this will not be any different."

Everyone began to add their own thoughts, and they seemed more lively. Within an hour they had a new plan and were heading to bed.

Duke Baird looked out through the trees. "Why me?" he asked the empty air.

"Because you're wise," said Kel, heading to her own tent. "Now go to bed." And they did.

Well, there's my new story. Nothing much, just a little drabble. Wanted to do something new. It will be a while before I update any stories, but don't worry; I will, at some point. Have fun reading and please R&R!

Helka


	2. Battles

**Chapter Two:**

**Battle**

Almost a week later, Taren was standing on the hills looking down at the Tortallan/Bazhir camp. Djen, leader of the Chanrun clan, stood with her, watching where she pointed and who he should mark. The two had been planning for a few days now, and finally all was set. The raid was planned for the morrow, and both clans were at camp and asleep. Finally Taren sent Djen to bed as well.

"You will be no use to us falling asleep on the horse," she said as a working excuse. As he left, she sighed with relief. Being this close to her natural enemies made her uneasy, although she knew he would not turn on her. She was too powerful, his band a few people shy of hers. Still, it would be better if he left soon, instead of staying after the raid.

Once in bed, she looked up at the sky. It had been long since her last prayer, but she still offered a short plea to Mithros to let her go through with this without loosing her closest friends. After all, it wasn't every day you led your people into a huge battle in which they could all die.

Duke Baird had been watching the hills when he noticed two dark blurs against the morning sky. It was the day of the ceremony, and all were wary. He went and reported it to Lord Raoul, who nodded and sent word on down the line of people. Soon, all were armed, but no one seemed like it, carrying on the pomp and circumstance this situation deemed necessary. No one outside the pre-warned fighting force was told, and no sense of urgency seemed to be in the open. Still, they were ready when suddenly a loud war cry was heard.

Down the hill came a large, two-pronged group. Most of them wore masks, but only two wore ones the could almost be mistaken as actual, skinned animal faces (a wolf and a desert dog). It was these two who were targeted first with the arrows, even when they were out of range. It took time for Lord Raoul to tell his soldiers that this was useless, and soon everyone dropped bows in order to grab swords and daggers.

Deep inside the camp, the ceremony carried on. The shaman watched as another tribe's shaman led the ceremony, and nothing but pride showed on the woman's face as she watched the small baby girl being carried to an altar at the front. The knights would steal in and out, trading shifts of battle, taking care not to alarm anyone so the ceremony would carry on in a proper manner. Still, it did not take long for the screams of wounded and dying men to fill the tent, which had not been dampened against sound as per usual. The people within maintained straight faces, but those in the procedure itself seemed to hurry a bit, causing worry in itself.

About this time, Taren was facing off with Lord Raoul himself. She fought swiftly, drawing him further out to give her archers a chance to shoot the others without hurting her. "You have no place in the desert," she told him quietly, her voice disguised.

"I am Bazhir by blood. I do belong here." With a quick move, he disarmed her, slashing her arm in the process. He had been aiming for her mask, but decided that this would do as he swung his sword up. Watching her bite her lip, he watched her carefully as the wounded arm dropped and his sword kissed the side of her neck.. "Tell them to stop, or die."

Suddenly his sword was pushed away as she pulled out a three-pronged blade from a hidden sheath in her belt. (AN: Think Elektra's sais). With this she caught his blade, threw it, and then slashing his armor along the stomach as well. She would have done more, but Kel had finally caught up with them and was demanding her attention so Lord Raoul could rest somewhat.

Taren grinned when she saw her next opponent. "The only recognized Lady Knight. A pleasure." She gave a mock bow before suddenly lashing out with a Shang-style kick, the force sending Kel deep into the sand as she flew back. With a quick cartwheel, Taren at last had retrieved her sword, and now fought with the sai in her wounded arm for later use.

Kel winced as she stood. "They said you were powerful. I see you can't be too powerful if you have to bring in another clan to finish what you started." She had spoted Djen's flag, and for once decided that irking her opponent might work best in this case. Her silence had been a trait from Lady Alanna, but even the first Lady Knight would have to fall to some other tricks of the trade.

Taren's eyes flashed. "If it weren't for you and others like you, you interfereing , I wouldn't have had to call on him."

Suddenly, as she finished speaking, she found two more swords at her neck; Dom and Zahir had both come to the rescue. She slowly turned to face them, anger flashing deep within the dark eyes that startled them.

"You like to battle the Bazhir? Then battle me." Zahir knew his challenge would not go unanswered. She would not commit such a loss of pride and dignity. Also, he realized that she would be wearied by now. It would not be long until he defeated her, for he had waited for this chance and stored his energy up.

Taren glared at him. In a movement almost too fast to follow, she let her sai loose, sending it deep into his arm. The others distracted by the sudden blow, she ran deeper into the camp, finally going to join her loyal friend who had already gained entrance (through his own means) to the ceremonial tent.

In the tent, the few soldiers were trying desperately to hold the soldier off when Taren dived into the fray. She demanded their whole attention, looking like a furious demon with her teeth bared in a ferocious snarl beneath the already-snarling mask.

"Go! Finish what we started!" she cried as she began to battle the others. Following this, she gave a long howl to match that of a wolf, killing many of the soldiers on duty, for they had not been prepared for anyone to get this far, and surely not two people at once.

The soldier nodded, and within moments he was at the altar, his sword at the babe's throat when, once more, their work was interrupted. Having recovered, Zahir and Joren had cut their way in to the tent. Zahir focused his attention on the wolf-like woman, while Joren decided he might as well save the child.

The soldier found his sword knocked away, whirling him around to be battled by Joren. However, the icy young man made a critical mistake: He wounded the soldier. Seconds later, a scream of pure rage ripped through the tent, and deep blue magic blazed through the tent, knocking everyone over. The Tortallans managed to look towards the source, and saw that Taren was even more powerful than they thought.

Taren had been focusing on Zahir when a flicker of panic caught her attention. Her friend held his arm tightly, staunching a blood flow that looked as if it would never end. Seeing this, she finally let loose. Her voice formed itself into the loud scream of a hawk, filled with pure rage and indignation. However, the power was not meant to kill. Those hit with it, her enemies, were instantly paralyzed and fell to the soft sand.

This done, Taren glared at Joren and Zahir. "I warn you, I will return," she vowed in an ice-cold tone. Stepping over their prone forms, Taren went, helped her friend up, and made her way out of the tent. The whole camp was frozen, and the two clans were staring at her with surprise. She merely growled at them and motioned that it was time to go.

Djen and his men looted the camp before leaving. Taren spent that night with her friend, tending to the arm which seemed determined to get infected and insult her pride in healing.

Afterwards, she sat in a meditative position on top of the dune. The fighting that day had told her she need new plans. If she moved quickly, ambushes would be set. The child could still be killed, but she would have to work harder than ever.

It was in this position that Duke Baird spotted her as he walked around the hills. Something caused him to hang back, however, so he kept this fact to himself and continued his walk, sleeping deeply when he reached the camp.

I am sorry it took so long.

Helka


	3. On the Wind

A/N: Through a random act of God, I found my own copy of Wild Mage. I am now, once more, entranced with Tamora Pierce, but this story will remain a drabble. I really don't know exactly what I'll do with it, but I kinda like having a more defiant character. So, in general thought, here's a short chapter.

**Chapter Three: On the Wind**

Taren spent the next two days moving her troops and seething. Djen had taken his people... and twice the amount of loot agreed on. Her friend had been healed, but it had taken twice the magic than ever. She herself felt stiff, and her arm moved slower. The only other healer was looking after the other casualties. Taren herself would come last.

She had failed. She hated to admit it, but she had failed. Every sense in her body told her that she had not only hurt her friends, but she had hurt her cause. The future was changed, and she was to blame. Even the wind said so.

She listened to it when she could. Each utterance on it brought news. The baby was healthy, progressing well, and even at two weeks old, even with a delayed ceremony due to circumstances caused by Taren herself, the child showed signs of the Desert Gift. Taren groaned when the wind brought news of moving knights and companies. She did not want to fight them. She wanted to keep the future from altering.

Taren faced the truth that night, sitting up in a cold sweat in her mussed bedroll. _I want to keep my nightmares from happening._

In her dream, she had seen a lovely desert mage using her Gift to... persuade... people, often against their will, into violent acts for her amusement. A few fought each other to be her bedmate for the night, often to merely wake up alone with a tarantula or a scorpion on their chest. The lucky ones suffered her keener fantasies. When one tribe was gone, the mage would move to another, and another, and another.

Taren shivered when she pictured the destruction she had seen on the horizon. And she had failed to stop it, had gotten her friend hurt, hurt herself, and possibly started a war with an enemy too great for her to match. _What good can I do?_

It took her a moment to realize she was wallowing in self pity. The disgust she felt was easily tempered by exercises, including a run on the dunes to the highest point where the wind blew the clearest. There she sat, immersing herself in meditation. She breathed deeply, softly, as the wind painted pictures in her mind and heart. All will be well, it said. She grunted softly, then stood and walked back to the campsite and her worried companions, still alert after this short peace. She said nothing to them about the task ahead – they knew that it was important, that it still had to be done, and that this time, there would be no hawk-song to save them.

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Raoul and Keladry patrolled the campsite together each night. Kel was still riled from the insult of being frozen and threatened when nothing could be done. However, they both thought on an important piece of food for thought.

_Why didn't she kill us when she had the chance?_

_True, she had to look after her friend. And, it probably took a lot of power. But why not go after the child then?_

_And why did she seem to appear just as the ceremony started? There were no warning signs to show it was beginning. Only the sun in the sky. And it's not like she could have predicted -its- position ahead of time._

Kel finally looked at her friend. "I don't get it. She didn't even seem to want or enjoy fighting us. It's as if her whole goal was to destroy that child. And yet, when she her chance, she left! Now we can't find a single clue. It's as if she's always two steps ahead of us..."

Raoul let her ramble, looking around as they walked. His former squire was right. This was no normal raider. He knew that to counter her moves, they needed unusual methods. But exactly how was that to happen?

The answer came in the form of Dom, rushing forward, breathing hard. "I went... the whole... perimeter..." he panted, before standing up straight. "Zahir and Joren think that the raiding party was strictly after the shaman's child. Us leaving has put them right in the clear. And the trail we're following is basically a large semi-circle. We're heading back where we began.

"She's heading back to the tribe, and we might be too late to stop her."

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Taren looked down the dune at the sleeping village. Mounting her horse, she used her hand signal to get them moving. Time was wasting, and right now, it was of the essence.

**A/N: **That last part is another day later, just before dawn.


End file.
